


A Warning

by whileyoustillcan (L_M_Biggs)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Feminisation, General Indecency Ahead, M/M, SIN SIN EVERYWHERE, Sugar Daddy, We are going to be giving a polite passing nod to canon and then ignore pretty much everything, i just wanted to write credence being a blatant sugarbaby, no obscurial here, squib!credence, we are just kinda avoiding pain and suffering, while driving our very fast car to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9076204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs/pseuds/whileyoustillcan
Summary: He was such a sinful wretch. Greedy, gluttonous, lustful, proud... What would Mary Lou say if she could see him now?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I love pain and suffering and the absolutely heartbreaking storyline that is Credence Barebone in the canon I did not want to have to deal with such trivial things as PLOT or DEVELOPMENT or ANGST.
> 
> So this story, as previously mentioned, gives a polite passing nod to canon while we continue our lovely drive straight to Hell.

He had a crease in his brow that said he very rarely smiled. Credence often saw men like that wander around, scowling and dark and vicious, selfish. Ambitious. He avoided them, knowing that they would sooner push him to the ground to get him out of their way then stop and look at him.

“Can I have one?” The man gestured to the flyer and Credence looked up, swallowing thickly as he took in the handsome, strong features of the man’s face, polished and clean and shaven, but his skin was rough and textured in a way that made Credence’s fingers itch to reach out and touch, stroking over the curve of his jaw and the very beginnings of a five o’clock shadow that he could see.

Credence wordlessly held out the flyer and swallowed as the man looked over the paper, fully prepared for a sneer and the flyer to be crumpled up and thrown back at him. Instead the man carefully tucked the paper into his breast pocket, looking down at Credence before asking softly.

“So how do you spot a witch?” It was a rather simple question, one that Mary Lou had often expounded on at length.

But he thought of Miss Tina, the nice woman who had saved him, if only for a moment, from his mother’s wrath. Pretty and kind and sweet and with a face that showed every emotion she felt as she felt it. Credence looked up at the man quietly, searching his face before he whispered. “I don’t know. They look just like everyone else.”

And the man smiled, slow and languid and pleased and oh Credence would do anything to keep that smile. “That’s a very smart answer.” The man murmured, reaching into his pocket and carefully pulling out a chocolate bar, holding the glittering purple foil out to the boy. Credence reeled back, as if the man had held out a snake to him, looking around, fully expecting Mary Lou to swoop down like something vicious and vengeful and angry, expounding on gluttony and greed. “It’s chocolate.” The man elaborated, holding it out even more. “To drive off the chill.” When Credence still didn’t take the bar the man opened it, broke off a chunk and took a bite. “Not poisoned, see?”

Credence’s eyes fixated on the man’s thumb where he licked off a smudge of chocolate before his shaking, bony fingers reached out to take the bar, looking down before he carefully replaced the foil, smoothing it out to cover the bar, and looking up at the man. He dared to take a tentative bite from the bar, still looking up at the man before him as if asking permission. His eyes fluttered slightly at the taste of real sugar and chocolate, the bar melting on his tongue and sticking gently to his teeth as he chewed and swallowed, his tongue flickering against his lips before his eyes focused back up on the man, startled quietly at what he saw there.

Credence was not one for unnecessary words. Mary Lou was a talker. She could go on and on for hours on any given subject that she wanted to speak on. Sin was her favourite. Sin and witches. No. Credence preferred quiet. It gave him a chance to watch people. And in watching people he had learned how to read their faces very well.

The emotion that flickered briefly, quick as a telegram across the line, was foreign to Credence. No one ever looked at him like that and he wondered what this new emotion meant.

“Enjoy that.” The man ordered gruffly. “And don’t go giving it away if you don’t want to. It’s yours.”

Credence nodded, tucking the candy bar into his pocket.

When he looked up again the man was gone and he paused before shaking off the feeling of unbearable loneliness to replace it with the protective numbness that he had learned to carefully use to fill in the cracks of his soul, to desperately try and cover the ugly emotions there. Even though they would still show through, like wallpaper beneath a coat of paint, the numbness was all he had to keep from flying apart some days, to keep from tearing at his own face and skin until he was floating and soaring and screaming through the air into a blissful oblivion.

When he looked around again it was as if nothing had happened. Save the bar of chocolate in his thin jacket pocket, it might as well have been a dream.

\--

The man returned little over a week later it was with two packages wrapped in brown paper.

“Sit with me.” The man ordered and Credence paused, looking around carefully, as if to search for Mary Lou’s sharp, painful gaze, before he looked at the man, who held up one of the brown paper packages. “Sandwiches. Come on, sit down.” He patted the bench beside himself and Credence shuffled forward, staring at the man before he carefully lowered his gangly form onto the bench. His legs ached and he almost sighed in relief as he gravitated towards the absolute warmth of the man beside him. “There we go.” The man handed over the package and Credence carefully unwrapped a steaming hot sandwich. Roast beef and onions and tomatoes and mayonnaise and spinach spilling out between two crisp slices of bread.

Credence took a greedy bite from the sandwich, scarfing down half of it before he froze, looking up at the man, frozen in terror as he waited for the man to slap him for being so greedy and ungrateful.

But the man was only smiling down at him, that crease between his brows smoothed gently out as he watched Credence eat, nodding at the boy when Credence flickered his eyes up to meet his gaze. “Eat.” He ordered, taking a bite from his own sandwich, as if to show it was okay.

So he ate. His stomach full for the first time in weeks, the sandwich filling in the aching hunger that came with Mary Lou Barebone’s strict quarter-portions and threadbare budget for the soup kitchen. When he was finished the man took the brown paper wrappings and balled them up, tucking them into the pocket of his long, heavy coat. Credence wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped up in such a coat. He could tell there was black fur, short and warm, lining the inside, the heavy, luxuriant fabric doing nothing to hide the broad bulk of the man’s shoulders and chest.

When the man stood he smiled and nodded down at the boy, holding out another sandwich from his pocket. “For later. You eat that and enjoy it.” He ordered and Credence wondered at the order even after the man had left, taking a couple of flyers from Credence’s stack.

Enjoy it.

Something about the way the man spoke the order made him curious, but he was unable to even begin to resist the order two days later when his stomach ached and cramped with hunger pangs. The bread was a bit stale and the sandwich was cold, but it was still good and he ate it eagerly, savouring the taste and thinking of the strange man who made him enjoy things.

\--

“My name is Percival Graves. What’s yours?”

“Credence Barebone, sir.” The boy whispered, looking up at the man as they ate sandwiches again. It was the fifth time they had met. They had finished their meal and now Mr. Graves pulled out a slim silver case and tapped one of the slender sticks against the metal before fumbling with the lighter. He cursed softly and Credence paused, feeling a lump in his throat as he nervously reached over to take the lighter from the man’s hands.

He looked it over, paused, before he flicked it carefully, cupping the flame and holding it to the tip of the cigarette, not looking up as the man paused before inhaling, catching the flame. Credence jumped when he felt Mr. Graves wrap his fingers around Credence’s, clicking the lighter closed and holding Credence’s frozen fingers in his own too-hot, too-big hand.

“Credence.” The man murmured, staring down at him.

He knew he wasn’t something to look at. Mary Lou had cut his hair recently, the same ugly cut made with kitchen shears and one of the bowls used to collect donations at Sunday gatherings. His face was sallow and gaunt, too long and skinny and sickly looking. His eyes swallowed his face and his lips were raw and blistered from the cold. But oh, this man was looking at him the way Credence believed was reserved only for those observing acts of God, divine intervention - miracles.

“You should come to dinner with me.”

I couldn’t possibly. I’ve already sinned so much with your kindness. I cannot. Mother will beat me.

What came out of his mouth was a soft, “Whatever you’d like.” His eyes wide as he looked up at the man. “Whenever you’d like.”

\--

Percival Graves was a man who lived a life of strict control. He indulged in his nice clothes, his nice apartment, his expensive cologne and good food, his cigarettes and his alcohol, but all of it was strictly controlled. He had no family, had no wife, no sisters or brothers, no children, no friends so to speak of and his owl, Archie, was often employed by the public mail service rather than Percival himself simply because Percival never wrote anyone. He lived alone, woke up in the mornings before the sun and was at work before even the first of his Aurors was thinking of coming in. So far as his underlings were concerned he was a professional bastard and he didn’t eat, sleep, go home, or have a private life.

And he liked it that way.

But ever since Goddamn Tina Fucking Goldstein and her too big heart had made the entire department obliviate an entire congregation of No Majes he had found himself wishing he had more of a life to spend with the Barebone boy who had caused the whole ruckus.

The Barebone boy that he was currently getting ready to pick up for dinner. Shaving in the bathroom mirror at MACUSA as a file floated before him, a soothing voice reading the rather dull, lengthy transcriptions of an interrogation of one of Grindelwald’s known associates. He stared at the mirror as he splashed his face, thinking of Credence.

Credence.

Credence with the slanted, dark, feline eyes. Credence with the full, soft lips that flushed the most kissable pink in the cold. With his broad shoulders and slender waist and his bony wrists and the glass cut of his jaw.

Credence who he had let carefully light his cigarette when he had been unable to work the No-Maj lighter he had purchased earlier. Soft, slender fingers and gentle lips parted ever so slightly.

Graves was sure that if he had followed his instinct to slip his thumb against the boy’s lip he would have been pressing the tip into that soft, warm mouth. Cupping his cheek, leaning forward, cigarette forgotten to taste the soft sweetness of his tongue.

“Director Graves!”

He jerked the straight razor away from his neck and turned to glare at Abernathy. “Dyers Curse, can’t I get a moment of peace in this godforsaken place?” He growled, reaching up to dab away the last of his shaving cream and turning to face his secretary. “What is it?”

“Sir, the office party is tonight and President Picquery told me to go find you and make sure you weren’t…” The young man awkwardly shuffled. “Moping about.”

“Well I’m not, I have plans, and I won’t be changing them.” The man growled, turning back to the mirror.

“But the President.”

“You tell the President that if she wants to come down here and wrangle every sordid detail about the night I have planned then she is going to have to do it herself because I’m not telling my secretary so that he can tell the rest of the entire office that his boss has plans.”

Abernathy flushed and almost seemed to pout before he nodded briskly and straightened before saying simply. “Sir.” And leaving the bathroom. Though he did pause at the door before he spoke up and said simply. “Don’t skip the aftershave. Half the female staff goes wild for it when they smell it on you.”

Graves blinked before he scoffed and turned back to the mirror.

He couldn’t help but think of Credence leaning in, brushing those soft, full lips against his jaw, his other hand cupping his cheek, long lashes leaving butterfly kisses on Graves’ skin as soft, shuddering little breaths escaped him.

Running his hand through his hair with fresh pomade he stared at himself, cleaning his hands so he could tug his suspenders up, roll down his sleeves, button his vest and carefully. He pulled his jacket on and stared at himself for a moment before pulling his wand out and guiding it carefully down his own appearance.

The grey of his suit turned black, his tie into a black bow tie. His blue scarf turned red and his heavy black coat gleamed, freshly laundered by the spell. He felt old. With the silver in his hair and the lines about his eyes and mouth from so much frowning, so much anger and frustration from a job that seemed endless. Much too old for the sweet boy he was going to meet.

Much too old to be thinking about those lips parted and gasping or those eyes crossed in pleasure or the way Credence would look beneath his shabby, ill-fitting clothes.

He left MACUSA, walking down the steps of the Woolworth Building. He cast a Disillusionment Charm over an alley and paused before he tapped his wand upon a trash bin and murmured a soft spell, smiling as his magic took hold, warping cheap aluminum into something grand. Something that would make an impression.

\--

Credence shivered as he stood in front of a bank several blocks from the Second Salem church. He was dressed in his Christmas suit, and while it still was old and ragged, outdated and too short or tight in some places, it was his best suit, the black more glossy than the threadbare, dull clothes he normally wore. He had no coat and so he stood in the winter cold waiting for Mr. Graves to pick him up.

And the man did.

Oh he did.

He rolled up in a glossy black Model T Ford, all smooth, luxurious lines and bright, gleaming headlights. Credence jumped when the man strode around to open the door for him, smiling as Credence slipped in, resting upon the soft, firm leather of the seats, shivering and looking up at the man as Mr. Graves slid into the driver’s side, putting the car in gear and smiling down at Credence.

“You have a new suit.” He pondered aloud, still smiling and chuckling when Credence ducked his head slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my Christmas suit… It’s very old. Not like…” The boy looked over at Mr. Graves and the man paused before he looked at his lap.

“What if I bought you a new suit.” The man pulled up to the Macys, parking the car and turning to Credence. “No one would have to know.”

“Ma would-”

“I’ll keep it at my home. And whenever we go to dinner you could dress up in it.”

Credence bit his lip, thinking about the implication.

Whenever we go to dinner.

More than just tonight, a promise for more…

It was a temptation, as sure as any devil’s bargain. Greed was a sin. A horrible vile sin.

Oh but he’d been greedy, feeding his sins with sandwiches and chocolate and one memorable occasion a hot coffee cupped in his freezing palms.

What was more greed atop his already numerous sins?

And so he was whisked inside the department store, lit up in beautiful white lights and a beautiful glittering assembly of delicate, beautiful things.

Mr. Graves guided him through the aisles and display cases and Credence paused, watching a woman, younger than him, lifting a pair of earrings to her ears, smiling up at the man beside her.

“Oh, Daddy, don’t they look swell?” She asked and the man smiled indulgently, gesturing to the sales lady to wrap up the earrings. The girl grinned, leaning up and giving a firm, slow kiss to the man’s lips.

“Credence? What colour would you like?”

Credence looked over, pausing before he looked up at Mr. Graves talking to the clerk about waistcoats and the different colours and cuts, the boy approaching wide-eyed and shy before he whispered. “What’s your favourite colour, Mr. Graves?”

“Red.” The man answered easily, curiously peering down at the boy.

“Then I want a red one.”

A black suit, a rich red waistcoat, finely embroidered, a black bowtie. His hair was still atrocious, but when Mr. Graves looked at him in his new suit and shoes, tailored and neat and perfect, the man’s eyes were dark and heavy and Credence could swear he felt the man’s gaze rove over his hips and waist and thighs and the arch of his spine, all put on fine display now with his new suit. He thought of the girl he had seen and her words stuck in his throat, clinging to his vocal chords, begging to be spoken aloud.

Daddy, don’t I look swell?

“Perfect.” The man’s voice was lower than before and when he stepped closer to look Credence over more carefully. “Absolutely stunning.” The man murmured, paying the clerk and guiding Credence away, the bag holding his old clothes in hand. He guided Credence to the street before he turned and reached over to take the boy’s hand. “Now we can go to dinner.”

And when they pulled up the valet took the shiny new car and Mr. Graves wrapped his hand about the waist of the boy beside him, Credence in his sleek, beautiful new suit. He felt as if his entire world focused down to the man’s broad palm on his waist, leading him to the nice restaurant, to greet the maitre’d there.

“Graves.” The man supplied and the maitre’d instantly was snapping forward, guiding them briskly to the back of the restaurant.

Credence had expected them to go to one of the velvet-lined booths at the back. He did not expect to be led behind a curtain into a hallway with several other rooms. He certainly didn’t expect to be led into a room with an intimate table for two, looking over the beautiful restaurant through a glittering window.

With a bed posed in the middle of the room.

No, not a bed. A fainting couch, chaise lounge, whatever it was called. It was elegant and red velvet and so very soft and Credence couldn’t help but sit down, running his fingers over the soft velvet as he listened to Mr. Graves speak with the waiter, ordering their food, wine, and leaning forward to slip the man a few extra notes and murmur something too low for Credence to hear.

When Mr. Graves turned away from the window he stared down at Credence and the boy couldn’t help but shiver.

Just as he couldn’t help the whisper that escaped him. “Do you want me… to…” His eyes dropped to the bed, away from Mr. Graves’ own gaze. Was this the payment for the man’s kindness? The price of his greed?

Perhaps a better question was whether he wouldn’t happily give the man anything he wanted, anything he asked for, if the man only kept looking at him with that burning gaze.

“Nothing you don’t want. I simply want your happiness.” The man stepped forward and he was pulling out a cigarette now, slipping it between his lips, watching Credence as he lifted the lighter, fumbling it as he always did. Credence took the lighter, flicking it gently and holding the flame to the man’s cigarette. “I’ll never learn how to use it if you keep doing that.” He murmured, cupping the boy’s fingers about the lighter, holding him gently captive.

“Mr. Graves…” The boy looked up at the man, flushing softly. “Are you the devil?” He asked, voice trembling as his eyes searched the man’s face.

Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “Do you think I am?”

“Yes.” The boy didn’t even hesitate, staring up at the man, standing slowly, stepping closer, feeling the cold metal of the lighter warm against his palm and two of Mr. Graves’ fingers rubbing against his knuckles. “The devil tempts us with promises of sinful decadence.”

Mr. Graves removed the cigarette from his lips, delicately holding it between his pointer and index fingers, the hand moving to rest at the small of Credence’s back, his other hand lifting their curled fingers up until Mr. Graves could brush his lips over the soft skin of Credence’s inner wrist.

“I’m no devil.” He stated simply against the skin, his eyes fixed on Credence’s and the boy realised he was taller than Mr. Graves, by a good few inches, his hunched shoulders bringing him closer to Mr. Graves as he gravitated towards the man’s mouth. “But I can promise you… I can make sure you live deliciously.”

Credence knew he should run, should turn away, burn the suit he wore now, scrub himself clean of the man’s touch, forget him and pray for forgiveness.

But all he did was give out a shuddering “oh” as Mr. Graves tilted his head and gave a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth, long, and slow and gentle. Like he was accepting communion from Credence’s lips, like the shy touch of Credence’s tongue was the first drops of holy wine given to grant everlasting life.

And as Mr. Graves lowered him back to the chaise lounge, stubbed out his cigarette on a crystal ashtray on the side table, Credence couldn’t help but feel that the fall from grace felt so very short and was cushioned so wonderfully with his sin as he arched and laid on the velvet lounge, looking up at Mr. Graves as the man stared down at him.

“Credence.” He murmured, voice low and throaty and raw in a way Credence had never heard before, the man’s big hands reaching up to his own sleek, beautiful dinner jacket, pulling it off to reveal his broad, heavy shoulders and the crisp lines of his white silk shirt, looking more undressed and predatory and sinful than any dancing girls or rent boys that his mother had always warned against. As Mr. Graves lowered himself to the chaise lounge, his lips brushing against the boy’s own mouth, Credence felt more than heard the man whisper. “You unman me, my sweet boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

Credence ignored the knock on the door, only acknowledging it when Mr. Graves pulled back from his lips, gently guiding Credence to sit on the edge of the chaise, rumpled and gasping and lips swollen. The man waited until Credence’s breathing was somewhat normal, watching the boy with the predatory look of some great beast, before he opened the door, smoothing a hand over his hair as the lock clicked open.

The waiter arrived with their food, paying no mind to Credence’s ruffled hair, his swollen lips and the way his collar was ever so slightly ruffled, his tie hanging loose about his throat. He felt like he had run all the way from the Woolworth building to the Hudson, trembling and pulse pounding, breathless as he went very still, waiting for the waiter to leave. When the door was closed and the room was filled with the tantalising scent of food, Credence couldn’t help but look longingly at the spread.

Mr. Graves moved from the door, sitting down at the table, turning to face Credence. His legs were spread wide, powerful thighs looking so inviting, like Credence could just slide down between them, tuck his face against the man’s stomach and breathe in the scent of him, grip at the fabric covering his thighs and feel the nudge of the man’s perfectly polished wingtips against his own knees.

“Eat.” The man ordered, and Credence’s eyes were drawn to the food, his eyes widening at the sight before him.

Meat, potatoes, spinach and garlic and onions and some other vegetable he had never seen, like a large thistle with fleshy, fragrant leaves, a bowl of creamy golden sauce beside it.

“Artichoke.” Mr. Graves elaborated, tugging off a leaf and dipping it in the sauce, lifting it to his own lips. Credence watched, enraptured, as the man’s teeth sank into the fleshy leaf, pulling the flesh free and the sauce, chewing briefly before swallowing. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his eyes fixed on Credence. “Try it, it’s good.”

And it was. The taste of butter exploded on his tongue, the flesh of the artichoke itself creamy and melting upon his tongue. He ate half of the artichoke and then turned to the meat on his plate, a large steak, dripping rare with a mushroom sauce on it. He sank his teeth into the first bite and moaned, looking up to see Mr. Graves fixated on his mouth, on the way he licked at his lips and the prongs of his fork, the way he chewed the delicate bites of food. The man’s own cutlery was working with the sort of economical way of someone who was simply going through the motions, focused elsewhere.

Focused on Credence.

Another knock and the door opened again, Mr. Graves thanking the waiter before turning back, holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and in the other hand a bright, round, perfect orange.

Credence couldn’t help but stare now as the man sat down across from him, pouring two glasses of whiskey, sipping from his own as he placed the orange between their cleaned plates. When Credence made no move to reach for the orange, as if it might bite him, Mr. Graves smiled softly, collecting the orange and peeling it easily, juice dripping against his fingers before he held out a slice to Credence.

“Eat.” He ordered again and Credence paused, staring at the man.

Leaning forward slowly he parted his lips, staring up into the man’s inky eyes, wrapping his lips around the fleshy slice and the man’s fingertips, easily taking the orange, chewing, before leaning forward to suck softly on the man’s thumb as his other fingers curled lightly against Credence’s jaw.

This couldn’t be real. It was all a fever dream. There was no world in existence in which a man like Mr. Graves could be here, looking at him like he was a feast of the senses, feeding him an orange and dressing him in beautiful clothes.

And suddenly he was being kissed, warm and wet and eager, the taste of the whiskey on his lips as Mr. Graves pressed their mouths impossibly closer. He couldn’t begin to resist when the man’s thumb pressed at Credence’s chin, making his lips part with a soft, eager sigh.

“Beautiful.” The man murmured, licking and sucking and softly biting on the boy’s lower lip, tugging him closer, guiding him to his feet. “Perfect.”

And oh it was like falling through centuries of cobwebs, soft, gentle layers, dying by inches and breaths as Mr. Graves maneuvered him back to the chaise lounge, kissing and pressing and peeling him from his clothing slowly, his palms smoothing over Credence’s thin sides and waist before grasping his hips, tugging him until Credence could feel the heavy weight of him through his slacks, thick and hard and oh.

Credence stared up at the man’s face as his fingers skimmed over the curve of Mr. Graves’ cock through the fabric of his slacks, giving a few more curious passes, feeling the shape of him, the thickness, before tugging at the fastenings, his fingers reaching in to gently tug the man free. He didn’t know what to do, had never even touched himself for fear of Mary Lou’s unending wrath, but the way Mr. Graves groaned his name when he stroked slowly, lightly over the swollen head was enough to encourage him.

“Oh…” Mr. Graves groaned, low and eager and heavy against Credence’s jaw, Credence looking down to watch the heavy, dark flesh peek through his fingers with each languid pass of his hand. “Oh, beautiful boy… The things I want to do to you.” His fingers dug into the meat of Credence’s thigh and the boy shivered, trying to imagine what he wanted the man to do, how he needed him. He felt so desperately empty, as if his entire chest cavity had been replaced with the hollow emptiness of the church, with birds swooping in the empty rafters of his ribcage as he begged for Mr. Graves to fill him with something. Anything.

“Look at you,” The man murmured, whispering into Credence’s mouth as he thrust against the calloused, scarred fingers. “Perfect, wonderful boy… Look at what you do to me.” Credence whined as one of those big hands tugged his own pants open, smoothing over the front of his worn, too old underwear, pulling the soft fabric down and aside so that Mr. Graves’ fingers could touch him eagerly. “What do you want, Credence? What do you want? Anything you want I’ll give to you.”

A soft, hiccuping gasp escaped Credence and his free hand tangled in the man’s shirt, tugging at the fabric as he whined and shivered. “You.” He whispered, feeling the man’s breath hitch against his lips at the word. “Only you.”

Mr. Graves groaned and Credence jumped as he pulled back, feeling so bereft before he sat up, ready to beg forgiveness, to beg for the man to come back, to touch him, to hold him close again, only for the words to die on his tongue as the man fell to his knees.

He scrambled back slightly, staring at the man in terror, uncertain, but the man looked up at him with such a liquid dark gaze that he couldn’t help but tremble from something other than fear. “Mr. Graves?” He whispered, staring at the man and nearly choking on the words. “Why are you kneeling?”

“Oh, my darling boy… My sweet boy.” Mr. Graves traced his fingers over Credence’s leg, tugging him closer, to the edge of the chaise. “I’m worshipping you.” Mr. Graves whispered back, voice low and rough and hungry in a way Credence had only ever known as a starvation, had felt and seen and experienced such a hunger before. He spoke and stared with the sort of hunger Credence knew to be bone deep, painful and longing and desperate. And Mr. Graves felt that way about Credence, stared at him as if he was a feast after weeks of starvation. As if he would glut himself shamelessly on Credence and call it communion.

He startled, clenching his fingers against the soft velvet of the couch, staring at Mr. Graves as the man bent his head, as if in prayer, and took Credence’s cock between his lips.

“Oh God.” The boy couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped him, couldn’t do much else other than melt back into the chaise, head lolling off the other end and chest heaving, thighs twitching apart as Mr. Graves sucked on him. The man never relented, licking and growling and pawing at Credence’s thighs, stomach, grasping his hips to hold him still and redoubling his efforts eagerly.

Credence could feel the emptiness in his chest filling with something liquid and hot and boiling, seething and aching beneath his skin, burning and coalescing and when he felt the rush of pleasure he couldn’t help but arch and all but sob Mr. Graves’ name to the ceiling.

When the man pulled back Credence could hear him swallow, gasp softly, then move forward. The ceiling was eclipsed by Mr. Graves, his hair sticking to his face with sweat, one hand bracing him over Credence, who laid boneless still beneath the man, watching his face as Mr. Graves groaned and leaned down to press his forehead to Credence’s shoulder. The boy looked down and shivered at the sight of the man working his fist over his cock, the man gasping and groaning as his hips stuttered out aborted thrusts. Credence lifted his hand slowly, sliding it down the man’s stomach, feeling the twitching muscles there before he cupped his fingers over Mr. Graves’ hand, sliding down until he could curl his fingers lightly against the man’s sack. The soft, curious press of his fingers pushed the man over the edge and a low, pained groan escaped him as Mr. Graves cupped his fingers over the head, capturing the milky come and gasping against Credence’s neck.

“Credence…” The man groaned, tilting his head to nip softly at the boy’s throat, earning a shiver and soft, feline eyes looking at him rapturously. “Sweet boy.” He pressed their lips together and Credence shivered, kissing back firmly, eagerly, wanting nothing more than to crawl inside Mr. Graves’ chest and stay there. “How could I ever live without you now?”

\--

“Hand out your flyers outside the Woolworth Building.”

It had been a strange order from Mr. Graves but Credence didn’t question it. It wasn’t until he saw Mr. Graves coming out of the building after he had started to hand out his flyers did he realise why the man had asked such a thing of him.

Now he went every day, waiting and eager to catch sight of his Mr. Graves. Occasionally the man would be with others, men and women of all colours and creeds, in groups of two or four or seven (as on one memorable occasion about a month after Credence had started to hand his flyers out across the street from the Woolworth Building) and always they deferred to Mr. Graves.

“What do you do?” Credence asked one evening as they walked, looking up at his Mr. Graves as the man smoked a cigarette that Credence had lit for him out of habit.

“I work for the government.”

“How?”

“I’m the director of security. I make sure the entire country is kept safe from external and internal threats.”

“Oh…” The boy whispered, looking up at him, eyes wide and worried. “You… You’re in danger a lot?”

“Yes.” And oh his heart broke a little when those dark eyes looked down, trembling, slender fingers clutching at the fliers nervously. Graves wanted to tell the boy not to worry, that he was more than capable of fighting anything that came after him. He wanted the boy to marvel at his skill with hexes and jinxes and curses. Wanted the boy to see him and to know that he was more than capable of defending himself, of defending Credence, if only the boy would let him. “I will always come back to you.” He reached out to tilt the boy’s face to look up at him again, begging the boy with his gaze to understand and know and believe that he could be Credence’s everything. “You know that, right?”

“Do you have a family?” Credence asked softly and Mr. Graves paused before he shook his head.

“No. I’ve never been one for attachments… My work rarely allows for it.”

Credence’s brows creased and he shifted slightly, tilting his face into the man’s broad palm. “Why me, then? You should be spending time with a nice lady. A wife or a pretty girl.”

“I have you, what would I need a pretty wife or girl for?” Mr. Graves smiled and tugged Credence closer. The man leaned forward to kiss his forehead and Credence melted into the touch, leaning forward, longing to tilt his head to brush his lips against Mr. Graves’ own mouth. But not here, not in the streets of New York with everyone able to see his sin, able to see how vulnerable and willing and deviant he was for this man. He was certain that if he kissed Mr. Graves that the entire world would be able to smell that he would do anything for this man, would do anything his Mr. Graves asked.

If Mr. Graves kissed him then whispered that he’d like to have Credence, here, now, in the street, for all the city to see and gawk at, he was uncertain if he’d be able to say no to the man.

\--

“Come with me to dinner again.”

The boy looked up and Graves felt so incredibly selfish as he looked at the boy, looked at those sharp features, softened slightly from regular feeding. He stood a little straighter these days, if only in the presence of Graves himself, but the small bravery of his beautiful Credence was more stunning than any heroic act Percival could dream of.

“I couldn’t.” Credence flushed looking down at the flyers he was to hand out. “She noticed last time… I’m not a very good liar.” He could tell the boy was thinking of something painful but he feared that he wasn’t strong enough to ask what the bitch had done to his sweet boy. He wasn’t strong enough to resist the desire to kill the woman.

“What if I could make sure she didn’t notice?” He stepped closer. “Then would you come?”

His sweet boy looked up at him and Graves felt the familiar sensation of something in his chest twitching with want, dragging eager fingers along his guts, roiling and aching to reach out and tangle the boy up in his desire. When he nodded Graves smiled, something he found himself only doing for this beautiful creature before him.

“Excellent. Your suit is at my home, I will come collect you and then we can go to dinner.”

He waited until Credence had nodded again, more eagerly now, becoming more excited, before he smiled and leaned forward to stroke the boy’s cheek. He turned away and briskly made his way back to the Woolworth Building, deciding not to linger too long lest his coworkers question his intentions too much.

Arriving at his office he locked the door behind him, keying the wards to tell him if anyone was approaching to disturb him. He looked at the file on his desk, filled with the missing magical child cases. He sipped at his coffee and stared at the names and ages, the dates where the children vanished, were taken, or had simply run away. One kept drawing his eye.

The child would be Credence’s age now. A halfblood, a witch mother and a muggle father that had run off, unaware of the magical nature of his lover. The note left was only that the child had been left in the care of a church before the mother, Anne Brittle, had taken her own life.

“An exceptionally unextraordinary child, no accidental magic was displayed, the boy, unnamed, is thought to be a squib.”

Perfect.

It was a simple matter to fill out the form, to write a letter to the president, to put his entire plan in motion. The soft tingle of magic, faint and repressed but there, would be enough for the authorities to be convinced of the lie that Graves had begun to form. A squib boy, held under the unrelenting thumb of Mary Lou Barebone would have more rights in the magical world. A No-Maj wouldn’t even blip their radar. So what if the Brittle boy wasn’t Credence, no one except Percival Graves would know.

He smiled as he flourished his signature on the final document, casting the spell and watching the paper mice scurry down the hallway to their appropriate destination, letting his mind wander briefly to Credence… His sweet boy…

Not a week ago he had taken the boy to dinner, had watched him savour the food, and then watch him fall undone beneath his fingers. He imagined how the boy would feel, how he would taste. Sprawled out on Graves’ bed, ass in the air and thighs trembling as Grave held his legs open and leaned in to lap and taste and open his sweet, vulnerable boy.

Graves’ hand twitched insistently, desperately, and he ached to reach down and undo his slacks, but simply breathed deeply and pretended to work, his imagination still running rampant with images of Credence, debauched and tears clinging to his lashes and flushed so prettily for his “Mr. Graves”.

He thought of his home, so empty and hollow, thought of Credence breathing life into it, thought of the boy growing, filling more space than the huddled slice of the world that he had made to just barely fit his hunched, curled frame.

He thought of his beautiful Credence, his, gentle and sweet and oh so eager to please. Thought of him sprawled on the kitchen counter, on the table, on the couch, on the luxuriant bed. He thought of dragging his hands over every inch of skin. Thought of kneeling before the boy to kiss his feet, to lap between his thighs and take his cock into his mouth. Thought of the way Credence’s fingers would tangle in his hair. Thought of how beautiful and warm and grateful his sweet boy would be.

Any thought of resistance was thrown out the window as Graves reached for his lap and began to knead his aching hard length through his slacks and underwear, groaning lowly as he imagined his beautiful broken boy.

\--

Queenie Goldstein was used to hearing other people’s thoughts the same way most people were used to hearing traffic, or the radio. Occasionally you’d hear something that made you tune in, focus, or be startled and helpless to do anything but pay attention.

That didn’t protect her from the shock when something unexpected cropped up, especially not when she was walking past Director Graves’ office.

An image of a boy, thin and fragile, the same boy that Tina had been worrying incessantly over for months now, flushed and gasping and arching filled her mind. Big hands touching every inch of his small, scarred frame, healing the cuts, tenderly making the boy whimper and beg and quietly reach out. Broad fingers traced and swirled over tender skin, nudging the boy’s thigh back, carefully stroking a thumb over the boy’s taint, sinking the digit into warm flesh. Full, bitten lips holding in a needful gasp and Director Graves encouraged the boy, leaning forward to kiss and tug his lips until moans flow freely from those soft, luxuriant lips. The fantasy Graves ruffles the boy’s ugly haircut, tugs his head gently back to kiss at his throat as he tugs his hand free, slipping two fingers into the clinging warmth.

“Oh, sweet boy, so good and wonderful for me.” Director Graves’ voice filled the scene and Queenie flushed as she watched the fantasy continue to play out, realising that the immovable, impassive Percival Graves was sitting in his office, oblivious to her voyeurism.

She jerked back when the man groaned and sank four fingers into the boy, the delicate spine of the slender frame arching and the desperate noises getting louder as Director Graves murmured, “Oh, honey… Baby doll…”

Queenie walked as quickly as she could with her coffee card, heels clicking decidedly on the floor. As she passed Abernathy walking towards Director Graves’ office she couldn’t even pause to brush off his attempts at conversation as he called after her. She didn’t need to be in this wing right now, not with Director Graves’ desire leaving an invisible fog of desire through the entire area.

\--

The trash bin was transfigured into the sleek Model T Ford again and Credence’s eyes were wide and eager and he shook with the leftover winter chill that still insistently clung to the spring air but the moment he was inside the car he was pressed to Graves’ side, his ragged clothes ghostly cool before heat melted away the trembles of the boy’s frame. They arrived at Graves’ brownstone and he opened the door for Credence, leading the boy into his home. It was…. Strikingly impersonal. Books on the shelves, no pictures, Archie was out roosting with the other mail service owls, and everything looked like it had been ordered from a catalog or moved directly from a showroom floor and never touched again.

“Credence.” He called, smiling as the boy easily pulled away from the nearest bookshelf, the boy squinting at the titles, mouthing and sounding out the titles. “I have a gift for you.” He murmured, leading Credence up the stairs.

Credence paused when Graves opened the door to a small bedroom, stepping through and pausing at the sight of the room. It was obviously not the master bedroom. It was too small for it, but it was still larger than any room Credence had ever slept in. The bed was plush and soft and piled high with blankets, two feathery, cloud like pillows on the surface. The closet was open to reveal Credence’s suit on the hanger, immaculate and clean and neatly pressed.

“What…?”

“This is your room.” The man murmured, stroking his fingers over the back of Credence’s neck, moving around to trace his jaw. “You don’t have to go back.” He murmured, kissing the boy’s neck and jaw. “You can stay here… With me.”

Credence’s breath hitched and his eyes tilted to look up at Graves, uncertain but so hungry, wanting, so incredibly greedy for what was offered. He was so sinfully greedy for the kindness, for Mr. Graves, for the touches and the eager desire and the way he was so precious in Graves’ hands. “You… I can stay with you?”

Graves smiled and kissed at the boy’s soft temple. “For as long as you’d like. Preferably forever.”

“Forever?”

Graves slid his fingers over Credence’s neck, over his chest, resting upon his stomach and pulling him close, his chest pressing all along the slender back. Instinctively that creamy neck was exposed to him, Credence’s eyes closing as he let out a shuddering breath when Graves breathed hotly over the skin.

“What do you say, sweet boy? Would you like to stay with me?”

Credence thought of his sisters, of the other children, protected from Mary Lou’s wrath by his presence. Who had never stepped in, who had never stopped her, who had always been more than willing to turn blame upon him to protect themselves from Mary Lou. He thought of Mary Lou, of her vicious snarls, her screaming of sin, her beating the devil from him even as he let the devil curl up within his stomach. He thought of Mr. Graves, of the way the man had been so kind to him, how the man made him feel less sinful and more divine. He thought of the nice suits, of the pretty robe, of standing in the kitchen when Mr. Graves came home from work and Credence could be there to ease his coat off his broad shoulders and kiss him and be his here.

“Yes.” He breathed and he was certain that the burning ache in his guts was what it felt like to burn in hell, but oh how could he resist that burn when it was caused by his Mr. Graves?


	3. Chapter 3

He had been embarrassed to tell Mr. Graves that he had no things to go back for at the Second Salem church. Had quietly look down at his worn shoes and his ragged clothes and whispered that all he owned was what he wore. His small rosary and several crumpled fliers in his pockets all he had left of the life Mary Lou Barebone had made for him.

Now, standing in his nice clothes, in a Saks, looking at the beautiful suits, he quailed. It was one thing for Mr. Graves to purchase him one nice suit to wear to dinners. It was another matter entirely for the man to buy him an entire wardrobe. Underwear, socks, slacks, shirts, waistcoats, shoes, and even a woolen blazer that hugged his waist tightly, showing off the long line of him and making Mr. Graves stare at him as if he was prepared to devour him right there on the sales floor.

Those looks were the only things getting him through this entire ordeal, staring at the rows of ties and the bright, glittering colours and patterns, and Mr. Graves’ hands holding up the ties next to Credence, looking him over, inky eyes and serious brows doing little to hide the way his breath would occasionally shudder out of him in a way that Credence had quickly learned meant the man saw something he desperately wanted.

Something he was going to take.

“There, don’t you look handsome?” The man finished tying a length of beautiful red silk around Credence’s throat, showing him the mirror and smoothing his hands slowly over the boy’s shoulders, forcing his back straight and obviously delighting in the inch the boy had over him. Credence forced his eyes away from the sight of Mr. Graves in the mirror before he fixed on his own visage.

He looked… Healthy. Happy. Whole. His hair was still atrocious but his face was no longer so gaunt so as to make it even more ugly. His cheeks were still sharp, his jaw square, but his lips were soft and smooth, no longer blistered or cracked. His eyes were no longer plagued by deep circles and when he stood straight he could see the way his body was no longer dangerously thin through his clothes. And oh his clothes… He looked like the dandy young men that walked along the street and ignored people like him. He was hesitant to wear bright blue suits or bright yellow waistcoats, he liked his black suits, but these were simple, svelte, and made of butter soft silk and linen.

He looked like a gift, a present wrapped up and ready for his Mr. Graves to tear open and indulge in as he saw fit.

Oh how he loved it.

Perhaps this was what Mary Lou had been trying to beat out of him. This wanton wickedness, the needful little thing he had become, wanting and willing and oh so open to his Mr. Graves. Perhaps this had always been preying upon his soul, waiting for Mr. Graves to come and unleash it, like a tiger prowling from it’s cage, ready to tear at his soul and drag him into sin.

And there was no doubt that he was living in sin with Mr. Graves.

He knew what Mary Lou thought of all sorts of people. Jews, blacks, flappers, indulgent businessmen, witches, politicians, all manner of people were going to Hell in her mind. Perhaps now he would be one of her sermons, a warning against the dangers of gluttony and lust, trotted out as an example of the sins of decadence.

For a week now he’s been living with the man. Sitting in Mr. Graves’ apartment, cooking him meals and waiting for him to return home, aching for him to return, eagerly giving the man soft kisses and pleading gently for more, which the man was always so eager and willing to give him. He would ask about work and the man would give him brief snippets of information about his investigations, about his coworkers - you’ll meet them soon, Credence - and about all the things he did in a day. And then he’d kiss Credence’s lips and mumble about how it was all terribly dull and tug Credence to the living room or the kitchen or the bedroom for any number of delightful lessons about living with Mr. Graves.

Perhaps the best lesson that he had learned was about magic.

It had been an accident of course, learning in the first place. Mr. Graves had been rummaging about in an early morning, opening the window of the bedroom, lifting his cigarette to his lips. Credence had risen, prepared to grab the lighter and light the man’s cigarette, only to freeze when the man tapped his finger upon the end and the cigarette lit with a small puff of smoke.

Mr. Graves was magic, there was certainly no surprise in that. No man as wonderful as his Mr. Graves could be anything but magical. But to find out that Credence himself might be was a new thrill altogether.

And now he stood, feeling just as magical and beautiful and wonderful as Mr. Graves was always telling him. He was so sinful. So deliciously horribly sinful.

Tugging the tie off, the soft silk slithering and licking at the white collar and the equally pale skin of his throat, so that the clerk could let them pay for it along with all the other purchases that Mr. Graves had placed aside, Credence looked through his lashes at Mr. Graves and couldn’t help but shiver as the man leaned forward, tucking his nose against Credence’s jaw, whispering into his skin. “You make me so hard, babydoll.”

The whimper that escaped him had to have been heard by the clerk, who seemed to be completely oblivious to them. Credence glanced around, peering at the other shoppers, other associates, all of whom seemed to be unable to look directly at them. Which was fine by Credence as he felt Mr. Graves thrust against the curve of his ass, showing off how achingly hard he truly was, the man’s own palm sliding down to cup Credence through his nice, sleek slacks, fingering the line of buttons and the crevice between thigh and groin that made Credence let out a vulnerable little noise.

“Notice me not.” The man murmured into Credence’s ear. “It’s a spell… No Majes are compelled to not notice us.” Credence shivered as the man’s palm cupped him even more firmly, kneading slowly, making him ache and burn for more. “So if I was to stroke you off right here then no one would notice.”

And oh he wanted that. Like nothing before. Like he wanted air.

“Mr. Graves…. Please….” He pressed his hips back, whimpering and gasping and looking at the mirror to try and catch the man’s gaze.

Only to freeze at a familiar pair of eyes in the mirror, looking right at them.

“Director Graves!”

The witch, Miss Tina, Credence had heard about her from Mr. Graves, knew she worked for him. Mr. Graves looked up, pulling his hand back languidly, as if he hadn’t just been caught feeling up a boy half his age in a department store.

“Credence.” The man murmured in the boy’s ear. “Go pick out another shirt, whatever you’d like, I’m going to have a word with Miss Goldstein.”

As Credence walked off on fawn-wobbly legs he couldn’t help but flush as he caught Miss Tina’s eye, biting his lip and looking away from her as she stormed over to Mr. Graves, righteous indignation burning in her eyes.

“What are you doing, Percival?” She hissed, tugging the man to the other side of the section, making sure to keep Credence in their line of sight as the boy puttered about. Graves straightened and glared down at her.

“Miss Goldstein, I don’t see how that is any of your business?”

“Don’t you Miss Goldstein me!” The woman gestured to Credence sharply. “What are you doing to that poor No-Maj boy? He’s not a pet! If the President ever found out then - then-”

“Credence is not a No Maj.” Graves stated calmly, brushing off his sleeve of invisible dust, looking calmly down at Tina even though he kept Credence in the corner of his eye. “He is a squib. And a legal adult. He’s too old to be a ward of the state and as such he is living with me, indefinitely.”

“A… You can’t be serious.” Tina whispered, looking between the boy, who was now stroking his fingers over a soft looking sweater, dark eyes watching the witch and wizard curiously even though he didn’t approach. “You falsified an official government document?”

“I was an Auror before I was Director, Tina. I did what all Aurors do, I investigated.” The man gave her a stern look. “The records all checked out two days ago. He’s a squib and is now legally in my charge. Isn’t this what you wanted? Him away from that Barebone Bitch and taken care of?”

“I just saw you man handling him in the middle of a No Maj department store, forgive me if I’m struggling to believe that you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart.” Tina glared up at Graves.

“Speaking of which, why are you here, Tina?” His gaze flickered to a rather round No Maj that was chatting and looking over beautiful rings in a glass case, mopping his brow with the cuff of a sleeve and talking with a rather beleaguered looking associate. “With Queenie’s No-Maj. I suppose they’re marrying now that they’re living together in that bakery?”

The threat was there only if you knew what to listen for.

Looking away from Tina’s stubborn but quailed gaze, he spotted Credence speaking with another clerk, a young man, about a few years older than Credence, with a slanted, charming smile and lazy eyes that were roving over Credence as he gestured to Credence’s slender waist, helping Credence into a jacket and reaching around to button it slowly, much too slowly and close for Graves’ liking.

“Credence.” He called and the boy was instantly coming over, the clerk entirely forgotten, showing off the rich red jacket with thick white stripes that he was now dressed in. He smiled down at the boy, tugging him closer by his waist and kissing his temple, glaring over Credence’s bent head at the clerk until the young man slinked off, like a fox driven out of a henhouse. “Don’t you look handsome in that.” He murmured in the boy’s ear, dragging his palm over the curve of Credence’s back, well aware of Tina’s furious eyes on him, Credence tucking his face against Graves’ throat, nodding and mumbling about how he liked the jacket. “We’ll take that as well.”

Turning to release Credence and guide him to the counter, Graves paid for the articles in the funny little bits of paper that No Majes liked before guiding Credence out of the store. He made sure to walk past the clerk, glaring at the younger man as he kept his hand on his boy’s waist.

Oh, his tempting little minx was going to be trouble, no matter if he wasn’t aware of it.

Nothing to be done about that but make sure that Graves was there to make sure no one touched what was his.

\--

“Welcome home, Mr. Graves.”

Graves paused, staring at the sight before him, frozen in place in the foyer of his brownstone. Credence was standing, wringing his hands as he looked up at the man. Potatoes and corned beef and cabbage, tender carrots and a bottle of whiskey on the dining room table. As Graves approached, sitting down at the head of the table, Credence moved to bustle about in the kitchen to collect some ice chips from the ice box, coming back and carefully depositing them into the glass. The meal was still hot, steaming up from the serving plates as Credence portioned out generous amounts of all of the food, his eyes focused on his task as he worked.

Getting a good look at Credence himself, Graves noted that he was wearing a simple white shirt, black waistcoat and his plainest pair of slacks, slightly ruffled from working on the meal before them but still neat and clean and precise in a way that soothed something deep in Graves’ chest. A desire for order, control, neatness. Credence looked over at him briefly, murmured a quick prayer, then waited for Graves to take the first bite.

It was heavenly. The beef was so tender it fell apart, the vegetables and potatoes practically melting on the tongue. There was so much butter in the carrots and potatoes and everything was seasoned and salted to a point where Graves was quite certain that the boy had used some form of magic in his cooking.

They ate in relative silence, only interrupted by Credence asking a quiet question about work or Graves returning the favour about Credence’s day.

“Miss Goldstein came to visit… Queenie.” The boy whispered, looking shamefaced down at his plate, flushing and twitching and looking up at the man. Graves, for his part, didn’t say anything, simply raising his brow at the boy. “She just wanted to check on me… We went shopping. Would you like to see what I got?”

“Of course.”

Credence nodded and stood, biting his lip and smiling at the man. He reached up for his shirt buttons and Graves froze, staring as the boy slowly unbuttoned them, reaching down to open his pants and push those slowly down as well until the boy stood in his new black brogues, simple black stockings and the gleaming brass garter clips. And the slinky black girdle that Credence wore was new.

“It’s… It’s very in… Apparently.” Credence murmured, flushed. “The… The boyish look.” He looked down at Graves, still seated at the table, and the man couldn’t help the hungry stare he gave the boy, his boy, his sweet delicious little boy.

“Go to the bedroom. I’ll clean up down here.” He stood, his hand sliding over Credence’s waist as the boy looked at him worriedly, as if he had done something wrong. As if Graves could even begin to resist the beautiful creature before him. “And when I’m done I’m going to make love to you, Credence.” The man whispered against his boy’s jaw and throat, feeling the tremble of his skin as Credence nodded and whimpered. “Go to the bedroom, babydoll.” The man reiterated before Credence was turning, slowly walking up the stairs, shivering the whole way.

Graves took his time storing the food in the icebox and then charming the dishes to clean themselves. Climbing the stairs he smirked at the open bedroom door, stepping in and closing the door behind him, prowling forward as he shed his vest, his tie, his shirt, looking down at Credence standing, one arm wrapped about the bedpost as he leaned against the footboard.

The boy stepped hesitantly back, sliding onto the surface of the bed, crawling backwards as Graves approached, climbing up after his boy, his pants opened and underwear pushed down just enough that he could stroke his cock slowly to fullness, leaning in to cage Credence against the bedding with his own body.

“Look at you, sweetling.” The man growled, nipping at Credence’s lips, at his jaw and throat, breathig in the scent of sweat and sugary sweetness that permeated through Credence’s skin. “God, the things you do to me.” Credence moaned and arched his neck back, letting Graves run his teeth over the curve of his Adam’s apple.

He left the garters in place, working the girdle up until he could trace his fingers over the boy’s entrance, groaning at the lack of underwear beneath the girdle. “Spread your legs, that’s it, that’s it, honey.” Graves slid his palms along the backs of Credence’s thighs, pushing them open and staring down at Credence’s entrance, soft and pink and tight and only for him. He rocked his hips forward, pressing his length along the line of Credence’s taint, watching the boy stare and gasp and whimper as he gave a few loose, languid thrusts against the boy, his cock sliding slick and warm against tender inner thighs.

“Daddy-” The boy choked out, cutting himself off and staring up at the man above him, shivering and whimpering as the man froze. A low, animal growl escaped the man as he leaned forward for a long, hungry kiss.

“Say it again.” He demanded, grasping his cock and rubbing the tip along Credence’s entrance, feeling the boy shiver and whimper and his perfect thighs spread ever so slightly more.

“Daddy, please…” Soft lips gasped out and Graves growled, slipping his thumb against the tense muscle, tugging and pressing and kneading until the digit could sink easily inside Credence’s greedy hole.

“Yes, sugarbaby? What do you want Daddy to do?” His thumb slipped out, only to be replaced by two thick fingers, spreading Credence easily as the boy trembled and gasped, writhing beneath the man’s ministrations.

“So fast…” The boy gasped, whimpering and reaching down to touch Graves’ fingers, feeling the man sink the thick digits deep into his body before a third one was added. A pained, desperate whimper escaped him before Graves curled his fingers, searching and smirking when the boy arched as much as he could with his thighs pushed back by Graves’ arm.

“My pretty baby, in his pretty underthings, begging for his Daddy.” Graves leaned forward, pressing a bite to the tender, pale flesh of his boy’s inner thigh, sucking a dark mark into the skin and smirking as he tugged his fingers free.

He looked down at Credence, breathless and desperate and hungry, eagerly reaching down to touch Graves’ cock as the man tilted his hips and pressed the thick tip to the boy’s entrance. When he sank the first few inches in the boy tensed and bit his lip, whimpering as Graves froze and pulled back slightly, just enough to roll another slow thrust into the boy beneath him.

“Easy, sweet boy, just relax.” He smoothed his palm firmly over the soft curve of Credence’s thigh, tugging him closer gently, letting the limb go so that Credence could wrap his silk-clad legs about Graves’ waist. “Oh, perfect… There you go, babydoll, just let Daddy in… Nice and easy.”

Graves pulled back slowly before he thrust in again, jarring the poor boy and watching his head fall back, lips parted into a perfect “O”. Credence gasped on the next thrust, his hands tangling in Graves’ hair and the bedsheets, arching and begging softly for more.

“What do you want, honey?” Graves asked, voice rough and low and desperate for this boy, his hips rolling in slow, even circles, letting Credence get used to the feeling of being full, to feeling Graves filling him completely.

“I can feel you in my throat, Daddy.” The boy murmured, voice thick and stomach trembling, his entire body a live wire, too sensitive to anything that Graves could do to it. But oh those words made the man thrust forward, growling and low and hungry for more, eager to fuck his boy until Credence was dizzy with it.

With each thrust he earned a new gasp, a new moan, his fingers tangling in the boy’s hair, tugging him up to kiss those swollen, bitten lips. “Come, Credence.” He growled, snapping his hips firmly against the boy. “Come for daddy, come all over my cock.” Credence clenched around him, whimpering and whining towards orgasm.

“Daddy, I can’t - I can’t-”

“Come.”

Credence’s legs uncrossed from behind Graves’ back, his feet planting on the bedding, his hips arching and jerking in Graves’ iron grip, the man pulling Credence down onto his cock, feeling the way he convulsed, clenching and shaking around his cock. A dark, slick stain formed on the front of Credence’s girdle, the thick come soaking through the fabric. When the boy jerked and shivered, too over-sensitive to handle the feeling of being full any longer, Graves pulled slowly out, smearing his own still-hard cock over Credence’s stomach, over the tight fabric of the girdle. He stroked himself quickly, efficiently, savouring the sight of streaks of his own white come painting the black fabric, and then further up smearing over Credence’s full, soft lips like rouge.

“What do we say?” The man asked raggedly, voice low and hoarse and so very different that he swore it couldn’t be his own.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The boy whispered, leaning up to give a soft, sticky kiss to the tip of the man’s now-flaccid cock.

“Oh, sugarbaby, the things you make me want to do to you.”

\--

Credence liked routines. He liked knowing what he was to do. He liked clearly defined rules and boundaries. He liked knowing what he was supposed to do when and what was expected of him. He liked having someone to look to to tell him what to do.

And so it was only natural that Mr. Graves had given him a carefully planned and outlined routine along with a set of rules within the first week of living with him. Credence himself had elaborated on them in private, writing them down carefully in a small notebook that Mr. Graves had given him to write down things he believed to be important. The rules written carefully on the first page were as follows:

1\. Eat when you are hungry. The food will not vanish unless it has begun to rot.  
2\. You may do whatever you please during the day, but when Mr. Graves comes home you are to only pay attention to him.  
3\. Be clean and neat and pretty for Mr. Graves. If someone comes to visit you don’t want to look shabby.  
4\. Have a drink ready when Mr. Graves gets home.  
5\. Have Mr. Graves’ clothes pressed and ready for the next day.  
6\. Do not touch yourself without Mr. Graves.

His days carried a pleasant routine with some variation. He would wake up in the morning to the scent of Mr. Graves’ cigarettes, rolling to the window to open his eyes to the sight of the man perched on the windowsill, smoking and watching him as he woke. Then he’d climb out of bed and pull on one of Mr. Graves’ shirts, going to fill the tub for Mr. Graves, preparing his shaving kit, the foam and the straight razor and the hot cloth.

Mr. Graves would come in once he finished his cigarette and he’d shave Mr. Graves, careful and precise and gentle, perched on the edge of the counter with Mr. Graves standing between his legs, the man watching him with his hungry, predator’s gaze. Sometimes he was already hard, sometimes he’d slowly become so the more Credence worked. But always by the time Mr. Graves stepped into the steaming tub to wash, he was hot and heavy and hard against his thigh and Credence just couldn’t leave his Mr. Graves to go to work in such a state. His fingers would lather up a wash cloth to clean the broad expanse of Mr. Graves’ chest and back, over his muscular arms, hard and strong and warm from years of running about and fighting. It wouldn’t be until he had washed every inch of his Mr. Graves’ body did he reach down to stroke his cock, heavy and hard and needing. He’d kiss the slick, heaving chest of the older man, breathing and whimpering at the feeling of his cock in his hand.

Mr. Graves would then get out of the tub or drain it or mumble some spell or another so that he could push Credence’s head down onto his cock, his eager, willing, open mouth engulfing the man’s heavy cock, sucking him until he came and swallowing what his Mr. Graves gave him.

Once that was done it was breakfast. Mr. Graves would stay upstairs and dry and dress while Credence would make breakfast. Eggs and bacon and toast and hash with onions and salt, orange juice that he still was dizzy over the fact that Mr. Graves could purchase easily, all spread out on the table, ready to be eaten. And then Mr. Graves would eat, drink his hot black coffee, kiss Credence and be gone in a crack of displaced air.

Today, however, Credence was to go with Mr. Graves to MACUSA. Something about paperwork, but Credence had not listened as closely as he probably should have. But he did not complain, eager to go with his Mr. Graves to work, to see where he worked every day when he was away from Credence. He dressed in his nice red jacket with the white stripes, combing and styling his hair in the way he knew Mr. Graves liked now that it had grown out. He made sure to tie his tie neatly and smooth his hands over his white waistcoat, over his black slacks, making sure nothing was out of place about him.

Climbing down the stairs he smiled as he met Mr. Graves in the living room, the man holding out the jar of Floo powder that Credence had used once to go to Pendragon Square for shopping for new books.

“The Woolworth Building!” He stated clearly before walking into the green flames, looking around as Mr. Graves followed him quickly through, briskly placing his hand on Credence’s back and leading him up the stairs, through the winding halls, into an elevator before the doors opened to reveal the controlled chaos that was M-Sec.

Everyone fell silent at the sight of the tall, slender figure beside Director Graves and Credence couldn’t help but shyly tuck himself closer to Graves’ side, the man’s hand snaking to his waist gently.

“This is Credence Barebone, he is my ward. Many of you have read the memo and have been expecting to meet him. Now you have met him. You will treat him with the same respect you treat me. That is all.”

Graves glared at the Aurors sternly, catching quite a few eyes lingering on the delicate curve of Credence’s spine or the luscious length of his legs, before they were snapped away as Graves guided Credence to his office.

There was another door in front of Graves’ main office and a bustling, short young man stood, holding out several papers and already chattering at Graves, which was dismissed with a quick, “Not now, Abernathy!” Before they were alone in the big, intimidating office. Graves looked Credence over, taking in his beautiful boy before leaning forward for a kiss. “Miss Goldstein has a sister, Credence, her name is Queenie, if you wish to wander then I’ll have her come and keep an eye on you. Otherwise, please try and stay here, I don’t want you wandering about when there’s reckless wizards all over the place out there.”

And wandering hands touching what was his.

Credence nodded, eager to please his Mr. Graves, perching himself on a chair in a corner and tugging a book from one of the numerous shelves lining the room to entertain himself. He remained like that for quite some time, watching Mr. Graves work whenever he needed a break from the text he was reading. He liked seeing the man speaking with his Aurors, hearing reports and especially hearing Mr. Graves’ orders as the man gruffly delegated bits and pieces of work to other Aurors.

At one point a man had come in, Auror Morrison, and he had kept glancing at Credence, perched neatly in his chair as he had been the entire time, book in hand but attention fully on Mr. Graves. Morrison’s eyes had lingered for far too long on Credence for Graves’ liking and the older man had barked out, “Eyes up front, Morrison, or I’ll start enforcing Constant Vigilance much more tightly around here.”

The man’s eyes had snapped away and he had been sent off with the order to come back when he had something to show for himself.

That was about two hours ago, after lunch, and Credence could tell that Mr. Graves was getting hungry for something other than sandwiches and coffee. Those inky black eyes watched him for a long moment before Graves cast a quick spell and called out.

“Abernathy. Bring in the Barebone documents.”

The bustling man from the other part of the office came in, slapping down the documents and giving Credence a once over before folding his hands behind his back. “Signed by the President herself, sir.”

“Good, good, Credence.” The man gestured and Credence rose, easily walking over to look over the papers. “Sign here, that’s a good boy.” And then the documents were handed back to Abernathy. “Send them for processing and let me know the moment they’re finalised and filed.”

“Of course.”

Once Abernathy was gone and they heard the door shut behind him, Graves turned to Credence. “Come along.” He ordered, walking briskly out of the room. Credence followed, curious despite himself. He paused at the sight of Mr. Graves sitting in Abernathy’s chair, the secretary gone off to run his errand, and Graves tugged the fastenings of his slacks open, revealing the heavy, swollen length of his erection to the air. Credence shivered and stepped forward, looking down at the man sitting in the secretary’s chair and leaning back against the desk. “Kneel.”

“Mr. Graves…” The boy looked to the door, shivering at the thought of someone coming in and seeing them… Seeing Credence knelt before his saviour, as if he was praying to the man’s benevolence, offering his mouth in ways that no god had seen fit to use. He imagined Abernathy returning to see his desk in disarray, his boss lounging in his chair with Credence fucked and loose and moaning. He imagined Morrison seeing Credence so entirely owned by his Mr. Graves.

Credence did as he was told, eagerly leaning forward to suckle the warm, salty tip of Graves’ cock, swirling his tongue over it and looking up at the man as Graves groaned hungrily, his broad palm cupping the back of Credence’s head gently, guiding him slowly as the boy stroked softly over the bits of warm flesh he couldn’t reach. When Credence began to tongue at the ridge beneath the head of his cock, Graves tugged the boy off with a grunt, gently lifting him to lay atop the desk, tugging the sleek black pants off of those creamy thighs, smirking at the fact that Credence wore no underwear beneath the fine silk slacks.

Oh, and Graves couldn’t help himself with that knowledge. Knowing that his sweet boy had been ready, eager, for Graves to have him, prepared for him to simply pull Credence over and have the boy. Long, soft legs were thrown over Graves’ shoulder, his head turning to kiss the boy’s thigh briefly before he turned his attention to the soft expanse of Credence’s taint.

Credence jerked as Graves gave a long, slow lick to the tender, sensitive flesh, watching the boy’s hands grasp the edge of the desk even as his head lolled back, an eager gasp escaping him before Graves leaned forward again, this time slipping his thumb into his damp, willing hole. Credence couldn’t help the whimper that tumbled from him, or the hitch in his breath, his hole fluttering softly around the intrusion even as Graves tugged and pressed, working him looser. When he felt Mr. Graves press his face between his thighs, tongue following the thumb pulling Credence open, he couldn’t help the desperate, loud moan that escaped him.

He couldn’t help the startled gasp when the door opened to reveal Morrison, standing stock still in the doorway as Graves stood, the older man looking over the desk, past Credence’s trembling, flushed form, directly at Morrison. He kept that eye contact as he thrust into the boy, earning and garbled moan as he sank in to the hilt.

“Mine.” The man growled, leaning forward, grabbing Credence’s hip, and training Morrison’s eyes on his own. “Get out, Morrison.”

When the man closed the door, his footsteps racing off, Credence couldn’t help but whine as he reached up to grab at Graves’ shoulders, pulling him closer.


	4. Chapter 4

Credence, Percival had found, was a voracious reader. All of the books on spells and history and wizarding law had been devoured by the boy within a matter of weeks. No-Maj literature was bought and consumed just as eagerly, Shelley and Austen and Fitzgerald, all read with the fervor of someone who had never been allowed to indulge before.

The boy was currently working through Poe, and now, on the weekly trip to Goshka’s Book Emporium, he was puttering about between three different books he might purchase, standing beside the shelf, running his fingers over the titles and biting his lips to an obscene red with his nervous fluttering. Percival himself was standing beside his boy, a looming figure in his dark Auror coat, positioned so as not to obstruct the sight of his boy, but with a hand lightly tracing the curve of his spine through his svelte jacket, showing the world that Credence, this beautiful boy, was his.

He could feel eyes on Credence wherever they went, knew that men let their eyes linger on the sleek, gentle lines of his boy’s body. He especially knew what men thought about the demurely downcast gaze and the flush, kissable lips of his boy. He knew because he felt the same desires rolling deep in his own gut, wanting and desperately hungry always for a taste of his boy. He could meet eyes with the bookstore clerk, with the bag boy at the grocery, with any random dandy on the street, and know that when they looked at his boy they were starved for a taste of him.

And his sweet, innocent Credence, his little wounded angel, was so entirely oblivious to the power he had over men.

If the No-Maj Governor of the entire state of New York came to Credence and asked to drink from the beautiful, milky expanse of Credence’s thighs, his sweet Credence could ask for anything and Percival had no doubt that he would be given it.

Percival smiled as Credence turned to him, his selection obviously picked out, clutched to his chest tightly as he looked up at the older man. He smiled, pulling out a few coins from his pocket and dropping them into Credence’s palm, guiding him to the front and letting the boy pay the clerk for his purchases. The fact that the clerk’s fingers lingered slightly longer than necessary in giving back the change did not go unnoticed by Percival, who glared at the clerk firmly as he guided Credence out of the store with his brown paper wrapped books held tightly.

Stepping into the street Percival made sure to tug Credence’s arm about his own, keeping him close as the crowds of New York’s streets parted for them. Credence stood straighter nowadays, smiling and proud, his ugly haircut grown out and trimmed to something much more handsome, framing his sharp cheekbones and resembling more the bob cuts of some flappers than the carefully pomaded style most men wore.

Credence paused, his attention caught by a glittering store window, and Percival turned, smirking at the sight of a pearl necklace, a strand of creamy, glittering pearls. Credence was quick to shake himself out of it, turning back to Percival and letting himself be led to their usual grocer, thoughts of the pretty necklace left behind.

Oh, but Percival knew his boy wanted it, wanted the beautiful strand of pearls, and who was he to deny his beautiful boy.

They did their grocery shopping at the No-Maj place, and when they went to pay the people in line behind them gawked as Percival handed his sweet boy a crisp bill with a 50 in the corner, Credence flushing and paying the grocer, who gave back the change with slightly shaking hands. The bag boy stared at Percival and the man looked back challengingly, plastering on a smile that he was certain did not look nearly as kind as the ones he gave Credence.

“Help us load these bags into a cab.”

It was not a request.

Credence was helped into the cab first, then Percival began handing him bags which his sweet boy carefully arranged in the back. When the last bag was put in, the man turned to the bag boy, who looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Percival handed him a dollar from the change and said lowly, “Don’t go looking at things you can’t afford.”

The boy ducked his head, blushing, and murmured, “Yes sir.” before skittering off, leaving Percival to climb in beside his Credence.

They rode home and unloaded their groceries, Credence dutifully putting them away as Percival sat at the kitchen table, watching Credence stretch to place items on the top shelf or bend to store them in the icebox.

“Credence.” The man called, lifting his cigarette to his lips and smiling as he tapped his finger and it was lit. “Come here.” The boy eagerly complied, moving to perch in Percival’s lap, the man sliding his palm over the boy’s thigh, feeling the garters beneath the neatly pressed slacks. “Such a naughty little minx.” He murmured, grinning when Credence’s eyes widened and he flushed, shaking his head in confusion. “Making the eyes of other men wander all over you.” He brushed his lips against Credence’s jaw and nipped at his ear. “Such a temptation. You can’t help how beautiful you are, how you make men want you.”

“I don’t mean to.” Credence murmured, gasping when Percival turned him so that Credence was straddling the man’s lap.

“Of course you don’t, babydoll.” The man murmured, sliding both palms over the boy’s thighs, cupping his ass and tugging him close until Credence was practically grinding against the man’s clothed stomach. “You can’t help it. You can’t help being so beautiful.” He looked into those sweet, feline eyes and kissed Credence’s lips softly. “But you always need to remember who you belong to.”

Credence shivered and nodded. “I could never forget, Daddy.” The boy whispered, kissing him back languidly, hungrily, delicate fingers cupping Percival’s jaw as broad palms slid up his back, coming around to tug open shirt and waistcoat and jacket to reveal the firm, unforgiving fabric of the boy’s girdle, dragging his fingers along the soft curve that the fabric gave Credence’s waist.

“Mine.” The man growled, his fingers digging into Credence’s side to drag him closer, earning an eager noise from the boy in his lap. With a sharp tug, Percival vanished the shirt, the slacks, the waistcoat and jacket, leaving his Credence in only his pretty underthings. His lips found the boy’s collarbone and he bit and sucked firmly at the flesh, careful to gently bruise the silky skin as he tugged Credence closer.

Percival kissed along the edge of the black girdle, the straps pulling the fabric tight over the boy’s thin chest. It would be binding on a woman, would flatten her breasts down to nothing, but with Credence the fabric did nothing but emphasise the slender shape of his chest.

“Look at you.” He murmured, pleased and low as he tugged the straps down, Credence bracing his hands on the edge of the table digging into his back. “My perfect sweet boy, my little angel, all prettied up for just me.”

“Only you.” Credence whimpered, gasping when he felt the man’s lips on his nipple, sucking and biting and tugging until slim fingers tangled in Percival’s hair, mussing it from it’s style and holding the man close as he whined. “Daddy… Daddy, please…”

Percival groaned, sucking at the swollen, pebbled nipple one last time before pulling away, moving to the other to continue his torment, “What do you want, babydoll?” His hand rested firmly on the small of Credence’s back, pinning the boy close and preventing him from wiggling away. “Do you want Daddy to finger you while he sucks your tits?”

The eager, hungry gasp that escaped the boy was answer enough and Percival smirked as he murmured a quick spell and slicked his fingers, pressing them into the boy slowly. His good, sweet, wonderful boy who was so open and eager. It had taken a lot of dedicated work to be able to easily slip two fingers into the boy without slowly working him open beforehand. So many days pulling the boy aside to open him up again and again. So many nights sleeping with his cock pressed deep into Credence long after they had both come.

Curling his fingers easily, Percival smirked as he watched Credence arch and writhe and gasp, twitching with the sensations as Percival teased his sweet spot, milking him until slim thighs trembled with the effort not to come.

“Such a good boy, waiting for permission.”

“Daddy, I - Oh, Daddy, please!”

“Not yet, babydoll.” He murmured, nipping at the tender, pale flesh of Credence’s chest before giving another long, languid suck to his nipple, feeling the boy jerk and tremble and fight to keep from coming as the man’s fingers continued to curl and tease before he slowly pulled them free, pressing Credence to lay back atop the table, legs sprawled wide and chest heaving for breath as Graves crouched then knelt before the table, nuzzling his face between those perfect thighs. “Look at how perfect and pink you are.” The man murmured, giving a long, slow lick to the boy’s entrance, watching the way his hole fluttered wider for a moment, inviting and wet from oil and spit. “Hold yourself open, that’s it, perfect.” Pale hands tugged Credence’s thighs back, one palm sliding down to cup the boy’s own perfect ass, spreading himself wide and eager for Percival.

Standing up the man tugged his slacks open, rubbing the tip over Credence’s welcoming, eager hole in slow, measured passes, feeling the boy tremble and gasp as the warm flesh caught on his rim. “Daddy… Daddy, I want it.”

“Want what, honey, you have to be more specific.” The man grinned, pressing his thumb against the boy’s entrance, watching as the tip was eagerly swallowed by Credence’s body.

“I want you, I want you inside-” Credence whined, biting his lip as his thighs trembled and he tried to arch just enough to force the man inside his delicious little hole. “Fuck me, please, Daddy.”

And how could he deny such beautiful begging?

Credence jerked and gasped at the first hard thrust, trembling and biting his lip and shaking as he felt the man sink slowly into him. “Oh…” The boy groaned and Percival couldn’t resist the way his hips jerked forward at the noise, making the boy arch and gasp and writhe even more against him. Such a perfect boy, so eager and pliant and sweet for him. Percival once had thought he had absolute control over the boy, but now he was uncertain. He was quite sure, now, that he was a slave to this decadent little angel that had fallen straight into his arms. He could deny Credence nothing and his reward was the bright smiles and pleasured moans and the gently whispered, “Thank you, Daddy” that he lived to hear falling from the boy’s perfect lips.

No, his precious boy was warm, happy, healthy, nothing but loving and sweet, and Percival Graves was the cause of that, was slave to the whims that would keep Credence that way.

“Come for me, precious.” The man groaned, thrusting deeper and harder into his lover, watching as Credence arched and clung to his broad shoulders. He could feel the boy going rigid, knew the rhythm of his breaths, and when Credence’s lips fell open and his stomach clenched tightly, the older man couldn’t help but purr as he continued thrusting, letting Credence ride out the orgasm in slow, rolling waves. “That’s it… There it is… Give it to Daddy…”

When the boy finally came it was with his knees digging into Percival’s sides, his fingers clawing at the man’s shoulders, leaving bright red scratches across his back, his breath leaving him in a loud, snapping gasp. He was beautiful in his agonised pleasure, and when he fell limp Percival continued to thrust, once, twice, three more times before he groaned, pressing his forehead to Credence’s and moaning against the plush mouth as he filled his boy.

“Perfect.” The man murmured, stroking his palm over the boy’s cheek. “Such a perfect sweet boy.”

\--

About four years ago Ulysses Graves passed away, following his wife, Antigone Nettleworth-Graves into the afterlife. Before that, Ulysses Graves had been a right bastard. Antigone had been at least willing to forgive her son his tastes, turning a blind eye when he brought a young “friend” home or when gossip reached her ears about the sordid one night stands with young men who were of suitable ages to be Graves’ son.

“You will stop this nonsense, Percival.” Ulysses had gruffed, not a year before his passing. “You’ll find a nice woman who will put all of these affairs behind you and carry on the Graves name with dignity. Respect. Not these rent boys that have no future in your life.”

Oh, Ulysses would be turning in his grave if he only knew.

His son, respectable Director Percival Graves, living in sin with a boy. Not just any boy. A squib. Dressed up in all of the finest fashions, wrapped in delicate silk robes, wearing expensive perfumes, cooking and cleaning and fucking in the respectable brownstone that Ulysses had insisted Percival live in after his schooling.

And if Ulysses knew what Percival was planning to do now… Well… Percival was sure his father would be spinning in his grave.

“Percival Graves.”

“Your key.” The Lockstock Goblin held out it’s clawed hand, which Graves easily deposited his key into. He was led into the back, down the elevator. They moved to the bowels of the city, watching other elevators go down, twisting and turning and following different paths. When they arrived at the Graves vault Percival tapped his wand upon the surface, revealing the keyhole.

The neatly organized vault, with it’s numerous deposit boxes, all immaculately maintained and holding various treasures, was still intimidating, even after first seeing it when he was ten and his mother had gone to collect money for his schooling supplies. He lifted his wand and focused on the item he wanted, watching as the deposit box snapped open and he walked over, glancing at the goblin before he reached into the box.

His mother’s pearl necklace. A gift to her, passed down, added onto, and gifted always to the newest Mrs. Graves the night before her wedding. His father had explained to him, in no uncertain terms, that this was a gift for a Mrs. Graves.

Taking the necklace and carefully conjuring a box for it, soft velvet and square, he tucked the family treasure into his jacket, making his way back out of Lockstock, the goblin guiding him slowly, before he apparated to the nearest jeweler, No-Maj or wizard it didn’t matter.

He placed the necklace on the glass counter, showing the seven loose strands that no doubt would drip down Credence’s front before he gestured to another pearl necklace on display in the window, practically a collar with how high up the neck of the display the expensive bauble went. “I would like to have that added onto this necklace.”

“I… Sir, that necklace costs $3,000. I would have to take a deposit at the very least.”

Graves reached into his pocket, counting out the bits of No-Maj currency in the way Credence had shown him when he had asked the boy hopelessly to tell him how much was sufficient for a tip.

“I believe this is sufficient. With extra for cost of labour.”

The man held the money in his hand and stared before clearing his throat and nodding. “It will be ready this afternoon, sir. What should I put as the name?”

“Percival Graves. I will be by at five o’clock.”

\--

Credence sat in front of his vanity, shivering as he fiddled with a few locks of hair, looking at himself this way and that. His lips were softly rouged, a delicate pink, and his cheeks had a healthy flush with no need for the fine powders he had seen other ladies use. He sat in his simple black girdle and the soft, flowing black silk robe that Percival had bought for him, edged with delicate lace that stood in high relief against the white skin of his chest and collarbone.

He looked nice. Like the rich ladies that he had once watched with quiet astonishment when they walked past him on the street. And he had his beautiful, soft suits to wear to MACUSA and to the bookstore and the grocer, the even nicer suits that he wore to those special dinners with Percival and the opera that one time. He looked nice - gorgeous, he could practically hear Percival growl in his ear - and it made a small thrill of pride tickle his ribcage.

He was such a sinful wretch. Greedy, gluttonous, lustful, proud… What would Mary Lou say if she could see him now?

He gave a soft smile at the surface of the vanity before he looked up, jumping slightly in surprise at the sight of Percival standing behind him, the man smiling at his reflection with those inky, hungry eyes of his.

“Daddy, I didn’t know you were home early!”

It was still another hour before Percival usually arrived home and Credence hadn’t even started dinner. He moved to stand, only for a pair of warm palms to press on his shoulders, pressing him back down into the seat. “I wanted to surprise you, babydoll.” The man murmured, leaning forward to kiss Credence’s neck, gentle and sweet, before he pulled back. “I have a gift for you.”

Credence knew his eyes lit up at that, his teeth softly biting his lip as he looked up at the man’s reflection.

He gasped in surprise when the man wrapped his palms about Credence’s throat, giving a soft squeeze before smoothing his palms out, over his collarbones and shoulders, the soft clacking of beads - pearls, Credence realised with a gasp - filling the air as the necklace appeared on his throat, dripping down his front, the longest strand pooling in his lap while the shortest clung just above his Adam’s apple.

Percival stared at him in the mirror and Credence let out an excited little gasp when the man’s fingers tugged the strands slightly tighter about Credence’s neck, the man’s gaze fixed on Credence’s face.

“This is my mother’s necklace. And my grandmother’s. And my great grandmother’s… It’s been passed down through the Mrs. Graves’ for little over a century.” His lips brushed against Credence’s jaw, teeth nipping at the lobe of his ear softly. “And now it’s yours, Credence.”

“Daddy…” The boy whispered, flushing as he touched the pearls, glancing up at the eyes of the man standing behind him. “Daddy, it’s too much… I’m not-”

The man lifted a finger to his own lips, shushing Credence gently before he tapped the finger beneath Credence’s chin, tilting his head so that they could meet eyes directly. “Do you think your Daddy can’t afford it?” He asked, low and murmuring against Credence’s mouth. “That I can’t afford to spoil my babydoll endlessly?” His thumb pressed to Credence’s lower lip, stopping any protests that might have arisen. “This necklace is yours now. It is your right.”

Credence thrilled, staring at Percival - at his Daddy, his Mr. Graves - and feeling his heart pounding in anticipation, wondering if the man meant what Credence thought he meant. Percival leaned forward, kissing Credence’s jaw, just above the pearls, smoothing his palm over the front of the boy’s throat, fingering at the thick strands before pulling his hand back slowly. “We’re going out for dinner tonight. Dress however you’d like, but you will wear those pearls.”

Standing up on wobbly legs, Credence went to the closet, glancing over his shoulder as Percival perched himself by the window, lighting a cigarette and watching Credence.

He pulled out his nice red jacket with the white stripes and a black waistcoat. His white shirt and pants, and finally, glancing back at Percival, the pair of delicate black silk dancing shoes that Percival had purchased for him and taught him how to dance the Charleston in their living room. He dressed, removing the necklace only for a moment before he replaced it in it’s rightful place about his neck

When he was dressed he turned to look at Percival, smoothing his fingers over his hair as the man approached.

“One more thing, sweetling.” The man murmured, leaning forward to suck on the lobe of Credence’s ear, the boy tilting his head eagerly for the touch. He jumped and yelped in surprise when Percival nipped sharply at Credence’s ear, a sharp, brief pain followed by a throbbing burn, the boy gasping at the continued tight pressure of the bite even as the man tilted his head to nip at the other ear, the same brief pain and then an aching burn that quickly turned to pleasure. When Credence turned he shivered at the sight of two glittering earrings dripping from his ears, curving along the entirety of the lobe in numerous small diamonds before a single, fat, white pearl hung from the end of each earring.

With his sweet boy dressed, Percival tugged Credence close, the boy tucking his face against the man’s throat, smiling as the pressure squeezed them close and then they were suddenly in front of Dorsia.

Credence gasped and looked up at Percival, uncertain but smiling as they were led to a table by a window, Percival brushing the waiter away in order to pull out Credence’s chair himself, pushing the boy in gently before he sat beside him. He ordered their drinks and food easily, waving off the waiter and smiling down at his beautiful Credence, the boy flushing as he looked up at him, looking so sweet and beautiful.

A slowdance began to play and glittering couples stepped onto the floor, Credence watching them with open longing, playing with the longer strands of the pearl necklace, letting them fall into his lap when Percival slid his fingers along the base of Credence’s neck, stroking at the soft, downy hairs there. Those feline, liquid brown eyes looked up at Percival and the man felt something vulnerable and needful give in his chest.

“Dance with me.” He stood, offering his hand to Credence.

“I… I can’t.” The boy flushed and looked at the crowd, looking at New York’s most glamorous assembly seated and dancing about the restaurant. “What if… What will they say if they see… You’re with a…”

Leaning forward, the man cupped Credence’s chin, forcing him to look into Percival’s own eyes. “I am Percival Fucking Graves, Credence. Who do you think is going to stop me from doing what I want with who I want?”

And oh he could happily live forever with the memory of the instant Credence melted into his touch, the boy standing slowly, following Percival obediently to the dance floor, letting Percival rest a hand on the small of his back, Credence returning the gesture, letting their hands tangle together. The man pressed a kiss to the tender, pale skin of the boy’s inner wrist, guiding him gently through the steps, Credence tucking his face against the man’s neck, breathing in the scent of colonge - of Percival, of something masculine and strong and warm and safe - and following easily however the older man led him.

“It must be a dream.” The boy whispered, looking up at Percival, staring at the cut of his jaw and the harsh line of his mouth, the mouth of a man who rarely smiled, who only smiled for Credence. “I’m going to wake up soon and I’ll be in my bed at the church and make soup for Ma and the orphans and hand out pamphlets.”

The grip on his waist tightened, pulling him closer, and Percival tilted his head to whisper back. “You won’t wake up, Credence. This is your life now. Dreamlike as it might seem, this is real.” The man fixed Credence with his firm gaze, staring down at the boy. “Of course if there is anything not to your liking I will have it changed. This is yours. I would not let you be unsatisfied in any way.”

Credence stared up at Percival, his breath hitching before he looked up at the ceiling, at the glittering chandelier where the music swelled and nested like a beautiful flock of birds, echoing about around them, showering down upon the diners and dancers. “It must be real.” He looked at Percival. “I could never dream of something so perfect and fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I need to go cleanse myself of my SINS.


End file.
